I pledge her not in any cheerful cup, Nor care to sit beside her where she sits Ah pity — hint it not in human tones, But breathe it into earth and close it up With secret death forever, in the pits Which some green Christmas crams with weary bones SONG. LADY, let the rolling drums Lady, let the trumpets blow, SONG. HOME they brought him slain with spears. All alone she sits and hears Echoes in his empty hall, Sounding on the morrow. The Sun peep'd in from open field, Beat upon his father's shield "O hush, my joy, my sorrow." ON A MOURNER. NATURE, so far as in her lies, Imitates God, and turns her face Counts nothing that she meets with base, 2. Fills out the homely quickset-screens, The swamp, where hums the dropping snipe, 3. And on thy heart a finger lays, 4. And murmurs of a deeper voice, Going before to some far shrine, 5. And when the zoning eve has died Where yon dark valleys wind forlorn, 6. And when no mortal motion jars The blackness round the tombing sod, Thro' silence and the trembling stars Comes Faith from tracts no feet have trod And Virtue, like a household god 7. Promising empire; such as those That once at dead of night did greet Troy's wandering prince, so that he rose Had rest by stony hills of Crete. |